


The Conquered and the Unconquerable

by LozisLaw



Category: The Goldfinch (2019), The Goldfinch - Donna Tartt
Genre: Canon Compliant, F/M, Foreign Character, Gangs, Growing Up, Internalized Homophobia, It gets happier, Long, Love Letters, M/M, Post-Canon, Recounting Memories, References to Depression, References to Drugs, Reunions, Teen Angst, True Love, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Writing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-02
Updated: 2021-01-07
Packaged: 2021-03-04 20:21:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,244
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25032346
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LozisLaw/pseuds/LozisLaw
Summary: Boris waits to find the right words. He drinks, snorts, sleeps, and waits. He writes letters that will never go anywhere, and he waits.He needs a push, and yet he waits. He waits to decide what to do. He waits to decide what he wants.He doesn't need to wait to regret not getting in that cab with his Potter.And yet he waits.
Relationships: Theodore Decker & Boris Pavlikovsky, Theodore Decker/Boris Pavlikovsky
Comments: 4
Kudos: 49





	1. Chapter 1

//Day 4 since Potter left//

What to say about Theodore Decker?

More like Theodore Potter, ha!

Boris hadn’t thought much of him at first. A new boy from New York, spectacled and on the small side, spindly and slight in stature. Skinny, with inquisitive eyes and reddish brown hair combed neatly in place, as though he was attending Harvard, and this little interlude in Las Vegas was just tedious pit stop in inevitable venture onto greater studies of the universe. So he came off as bit of a snob. A bit of an entitled dickhead. It bore no relevance to Boris, because he didn’t interact with him at school. No one did.

Look, he wasn’t complaining exactly, he didn’t really want people around him, asking about his life, asking about his home. Call him little bit of an introvert. Or weird goth foreigner that no one understands when he speaks. That’s the description of himself other people use. He usually just smirks to himself about it, not denying there was allure to being so mysterious and shit to everyone else. He’d use that to advantage one day. But right now, he was in the bottom of the pits in weird hot place in America, stuck in a tacky art deco Mediterranean house with his father. With fuck all to do except sleep, jerk off, and experiment drugs he managed to recover from all over.

Boris was getting out of this place at some point. He hated it- he didn’t understand why anyone would ever live in the desert, where the horrible sun shines brightest, where nothing grows and there’s nothing to do but smoke and drink and fuck if you were lucky enough to have someone already to fuck. If you didn’t, tough fucking luck, because there was no one else here, nobody to pick up and hang out with. In his neighbourhood, it was deserted and empty.

At least until Potter came along. Back then.

He ignored him at first- noting his appearance with disinterest, then continuing on with his life. It was weird, new kids didn’t come often, so he supposed that was an excuse to look back and keep subtly checking over him from behind when they were in class. There was nothing outwardly special about him. If Maidanuty and those guys ever felt offended by his bookish looks, then Boris supposed he would soon be picked upon, and the new punching bag would be chosen by fate. The kid was so out of it, he didn’t even notice other people, he didn’t speak to anyone, and his head was in a book when he wasn’t in class.

Boris knew he was clever immediately. The glasses and his clothes gave him away as being nerdy, but when it came to stereotypes, that could only mean he had no common sense, and he would be certainly be beaten for his obliviousness to his outward nature begged for the bullies to pick him as target. To Boris’ surprise, and immediate interest, he wasn’t any of these things either. He was book clever, yes, but he had aura about him that felt like resigned peace, or brokenness that was given up to hoping, but he’d live his life in this mediocrity because it was the hand he was dealt, and he’d make no grand attempt to change that, because something happened to make him lose hope. Call it curiosity, Boris was intrigued by this, by him, suddenly. Maybe because he related to that line of thinking so exactly that he felt inclined to discuss hopelessness of it with him, to hear his story, to feel deep empathy. The boy was clever, yes, he understood simple ironies, he understood when others were being dickheads, just by speaking human words. The trash that came out of their mouths, everyone went along with it, except Boris. Except Boris, and Potter.

So he started sitting next to him on bus. He took the always empty seat next to Potter, and sat there silently beside him while they waited for their stop. They had the same stop, which was when Boris realised they lived in the same neighbourhood, and were the only fuckers who did.

He was most surprised when quiet Potter actually broke out of his trance and asked Boris questions on the bus. It was a stupid question, something about what picture he had on his shirt, but when he asked, Boris looked at him, and knew they were going to be friends. It was weird, yes, but he just knew. Call it fucking instinct, Boris knew something about him was worth sticking around. That’s bullshit.

At the time he was probably sick of not speaking to anyone, and Potter looked like a half decent person to fuck around with his drugs, somebody who didn’t have a stick up their ass blocking their brain, if that’s what he even wanted at first. He’s just speaking shit though, because he didn’t have grand divine understanding of Potter’s character at first. He learnt it eventually, but at first they barely spoke. It took drugs to actually open up for real.

The ridiculous long desert road to the neighbourhood was least favourite part of the day. The bus wouldn’t arrive any closer, so they had to walk in fucking thousand degree heat, whatever stupid measurement system the Americans used that made no sense. It was even worse when you wore thick black coats and had long black hair. He felt like a polar bear, insulating all this unnecessary sun energy only to keep it and walk miles of dry desert road just to get home, where more heat, more beatings, more solitude, awaited.

It was amusing to see Potter so befuddled when he pulled out his umbrella to avoid sun, but the quick acceptance of it was what made Boris like him so much at first. He seemed completely out of it in way of being sceptical of anything. So he just joined Boris in shade of umbrella as they walked back home.

The first time Boris went to Potter’s house was that afternoon, where they were mostly still silent, and where Boris first suggested beer to him. He knew immediately Potter had never tried it before, the pure trepidation that felt through his expressive eyes, but it passed just as quickly, and again he was blank, open and resigned. He kept that expression every time Potter gave him something knew, that same blink of a moment of worry, quickly masked by resigned indifference, and an openness to put everything Boris gave him inside of him.

And it felt- just like that, the two boys were connected to the hip. It made it easier, given they were the only two fuckheads in the whole neighbourhood, and everyone else at school sucked major balls. Certainly weird, but Boris felt a tug at him to the boy, who spoke more and more to him, and revealed himself in time for Boris to realise they weren’t actually so different. That first night, Potter told him his mother had been killed in a bombing.

Boris knew better than to ask more. He knew all too fucking well, what it was like without a mother. Ha, he dreamed about her sometimes! She was soft. Soft and sensible, she didn’t like confrontation, unless there was no other way, and then she could be a fox outwitting a snake. He didn’t actually know too much about her, but his father had been too busy working mines to clear out leftover memorabilia of hers from when she was alive. Boris had looked through every morsel of it, but he didn’t cry. He never cried. He barely remembered what she looked like. She shared his hair, at least.

So he didn’t pressure Potter to ask more when he opened this part of himself up, first of many pieces. He nodded respectfully, chugged more crap beer, watching as Potter now fearlessly followed his lead. He found out relatively early the willingness Theo possessed, the pure need to follow someone, to be led. Boris led him.

He was too fucked up himself to realise that he was worst possible person to lead. Maybe it was their shared lives, made hard by circumstance, that connected them so entirely, so early. Maybe they were crawling for some kind of empathy from anyone who understood, that the first person they found who did, they clung obsessively, for a very long time.

Admittedly, Boris loved it at first. He wasn’t ashamed to admit that Potter gave him a confidence he’d lost, courage to be who he wanted, which was the same. Maybe he did none of those things, and it was just so gratifying to have best friend, someone he told abso-fucking-lutely everything to, that he didn’t want- didn’t need, anything else.

Theo was brave. He didn’t look it, but he was braver than Boris. That much had been proven to him, time and time again. Potter got so brave that once he saw Boris do something, he just followed without hesitation. Now, Boris realises that he was giving him a bad influence, and it’s not what he really needed, but he can’t actually make himself believe that. Boris gave Potter what he had always been too scared, too self-conscious, too afraid of judgement, to take for himself.

It was him who gave him that, and he can’t ever lose it now. No matter where he is.

But Boris was a screw up. He had no business being somebody’s saviour. He was so damaged himself that there was no way he could in good conscience lead someone to the light. He was dark, he only led to darkness, to bad things. What else could he do? What other tools could he have given Theo to succeed where he was destined to? He didn’t have any. He only had his arsenal of bad weapons, unwholesome things that Potter may have sneered at had he been living in New York still. But he had been taken back to this shithole with his alcoholic father, his mother was dead, and his only other home had been cruelly taken away from him when he father showed up to claim him.

His life was shit. Potter also represented something better, by something familiar.

**

Boris looks over his writing in disgust, humiliated with himself for getting so emotional and flowery. He chugs his whiskey, shaking his head at the fruity nonsense while the burning chemical of alcohol slides down his throat, sizzling at it.

He throws his pen down and chucks the embarrassing thoughts into his backpack, hiding them until next time. He only started today, trying to find a reason to stay, or to go. He couldn’t find it writing pros and cons, so he just started writing what popped into his head, which was apparently spouting rubbish about Theodore when they met.

Weirdly, he wants to continue.

Despite the fact that he’s sitting alone in his room, holding his pillow to his nose while he stares at the backpack his notes fell into. The pillow still smells like Theodore’s hair, where he slept here last, which was only the other night. It smells like the fussy shampoo Theodore uses. It’s hilarious the care he puts into it- ignoring the fact that he recently started doing it too out of the habit of them copying each other. Well, it was hilarious. Some of Theodore’s clothes are still here, hidden in the spots he put it when they stayed over at each other’s houses without warning. That way they didn’t need supplies. It was efficient, given their habits of doing whatever the fuck they liked- or what they could do in this boiling shithole.

That won’t be the case anymore. It happened while he was high. He didn’t even have the brain capacity to talk Theo out of it. Theodore was high too, which Boris would have mentioned if he wasn’t as well.

He’s starting to miss him, and little Popchik too.

He’s been sitting like this for days. He can’t decide.

Potter wanted him to follow. For the first time, he wanted to lead, and wanted Boris to follow just as willingly as he always did. Boris had been wanted Theo to do that for ages and ages. He thought he would be ready when he finally asked for it.

He can’t believe he didn’t follow Theo into that cab- to the ends of the earth, just as Theo had done for him.

Boris throws his backpack to the wall and pours himself another drink. His hands shake.


	2. Chapter 2

//Day 7 since Potter left//

Well, what else to say about Theodore Potter?

Once he got out of the dark labyrinth of his mind, the fucker was a hilarious and creative soul. Boris got to witness first hand his extraordinary personality that jumped out of its shell. Potter was great fun to be around. The boy found ways to have fun in this hot dump land that had never come across to Boris. He invented games, he created fun for once that didn’t even consist of drugs.

But back to that first hit Boris ever gave his Potter.

He’s not in the business of guilt, or feeling guilty. He’s not guilty about introducing them to Theo. Theo was in the place of darkness where the soul lurks. That sounds so fucking retarded. But it’s true, and Boris felt that same darkness of the soul. That’s why he shared the drugs to begin with. Why they shared everything.

Theodore had been fighting the infamous internal battle. Boris witnessed part of it with seeing his father, and heard part of it when Theodore was drunk enough to let himself talk about it without lying or masking his pure emotions. This was the funny part, because Theo was a blackout drunk. He never remembered anything after getting drunk, and his accounts were always so screwed up that Boris would mess with him about the things he did, which in reality weren’t worse than what actually happened. Ha!

No, that won’t be discussed. These useless accounts feel like bullshit spouting bullshit, festering in guilt- not guilt, regret. Yes. He’s still in disbelief that he took it.

But anyways.

That first hit. Boris mentioned in the first account how brave and open Potter would get when Boris offered him anything. Maybe his Theo was sad, starved for friendship. Maybe that’s why he even continued to talk to Boris at all. Lack of anything better in the shit dump of Las Vegas?

Boris would take it, even if that were the case.

He knew it wasn’t though. Try as he might scrounge into the blackness of his heart in order to feel not worthy of living, he couldn’t deny knowing that what Theo needed in that point of his life, was Boris to make things better, to show him another way.

Theodore mentioned Pippa the first time Boris gave him the drugs. Boris had taken some too, so he was quite out of it at the time. The mention of her had been out of the blue and irrelevant, and Boris didn’t think much about it, so he offered little to the conversation.

He did listen as Theo described what happened to him in more vivid description than he’d ever deigned to share. Boris was in quiet shocked acceptance, and he offered what consolation he could when Theo got emotional. He wasn’t a complete bastard, he knew empathy, he understood all too well. Goddamn.

It only makes him wonder if that’s why Theodore felt so conflicted between the good side and the evil temptation that was Boris. Pippa was obviously the good. She was the manifestation of the wholesome life Theodore should have wanted. He tried to want it. To him, Las Vegas was probably just a holiday to go fuck all out on being bad. And that’s where Boris played his small, pitiful and pivotal part. Boris gave that scrawny little boy the push he needed to just be fucking bad and not care for once. He wouldn’t have escaped Las Vegas without that bad confidence, Boris knows it. He wanted Potter to admit it, but he was a prude, and if he ever agreed with him, he’d be damned before admitting it.

Fucking closet case. That’s what he is.

Boris hopes the push he received by being here has outgrown that habit of hiding his trueness, because Boris did just want him to be happy, when if Boris was no longer in the picture. He knew he wouldn’t be- in the end.

Maybe when he was young and ignorant he might’ve hoped to continued their adventure past this dump of shit. Maybe he hoped to travel the world with his best friend, get fucked up at every monument they could, and just live their lives without the extra baggage of their pasts.

Of course, this was ridiculous. Boris already knew you couldn’t run or escape the past. Theodore was yet to realise this, otherwise he’d have called Boris by now.

Boris doesn’t blame him. Boris would be pissed off at himself enough to not speak to him if he’d still not just picked up his ass and gone to New York yet.

He was still deciding. Give him a fucking break. It’s not as easy as Theodore made it sound, once his confidence left with that taxi, Boris’ spirit and adventure went with him, leaving a scared gangly boy who was too afraid to move backward or forward without anyone there to assure him it was okay to move.

He's been taking more drugs. That’s irrelevant, but this whole fucking notebook is irrelevant, so what-the fuck-ever.

**

Boris sighs and throws his pen down, rubbing at his eyes. It’s pretty late, he’s sitting up in bed with the horribly blasting lamp killing his eyes. He was really getting somewhere with this pointless notes. They’re mostly just thoughts he’d like to reread. The first rambling paragraph he’s re-read every night before bed. It’s basically all he has left to even remember Theo. His Theo.

That’s a lie though, basically half of Theodore’s clothes are in Boris’ room, from when they had frequent random sleepovers and just kept each other’s clothes at the other’s house for convenience. Sometimes they shared too. Well, Theo wore Boris’ big black clothes, which sagged adorably on him. Boris would never fit Theodore’s small lithe little frame. He was basically still a kid. It makes it even crazier to think what Boris has done to that kid. He only thought about it late at night, when he was too tired to block these poison thoughts.

Boris is too tired to care right now, taking off his shirt for bed and putting the notebook aside. He’ll burn it one day, once he’s filled it. Already, yawning and stretching out onto the bed in the summer humidity, flopping sweaty wet hair out of his face, he knows he’s gonna fill it. There’s much shit to discuss with himself, after all.

And much to decide.

It would be easy to just get out of his dickhead papa’s house and run away to Potter, who as far as he’s concerned, is his only real family. He feels like he’s staying to figure out why he hasn’t yet.

Maybe he’s scared.

Boris falls asleep before thinking about it any further, avoiding the tempting deep black thoughts that would send his soul to depression purgatory. He barely gets out every time, and one day it will take him. He can feel it happening already, rolling over in the heat and not finding Potter sleeping beside him, breathing in small puffs as though he doesn’t want to disturb Boris. As if Boris could ever be disturbed by the sweet innocent sight of his little Theodore asleep.

Then Boris does fall asleep, hiding his face in his pillow to stop seeing an imaginary Theo sleeping in his head, despite the heat making him swelter. It doesn’t matter anyway. Theodore is far from here, probably done with Boris anyway.

Boris just has to build the nerve to be done with him, once he finally believes it.

He probably never will.

And then he’s asleep.


	3. Chapter 3

_//Day ~~32~~ 34? Since Potter left//_

Boris is so fucking drunk. He went out late the night before and got stolen bottles of booze from his father’s cellar. He had to do it late enough to avoid capture, and now here he is, scrawling this writing in because he can barely see his own words. They taught him to be literate, so it’s not that hard. He’s used to writing drunk now, after all.

It’s been a month since Theodore left for New York. A month since Boris started writing these pathetic thoughts. And a month since Boris forgot the taste of Potter’s lips.

He covered that earlier- yes?

Boris doesn’t fucking remember. Reading the letters while he’s drunk is a bad idea. He knows because he ripped a pillow sheet in half the other week when he did it.

But Theo’s lips.

Splendid. They were splendid. Is that odd? He always liked that word, it felt regal and humble at the same time. A warm embrace mixed with cautious curiosity. That’s what his lips felt like. Now he’s mixing up meanings, but that word describes those warm, perfect lips any day.

Let’s describe them, shall we? Who’s gonna read this anyway. Boris just wants some perspective on what it was like the closer he knew what they were like. He’ll forget what they felt like if he goes on like this.

He knows he’s not going to New York. He’s decided. He doesn’t know why. He was high at the time he decided, and he felt like he maybe shouldn’t break that decision, since he could have made some good points that he can’t remember now. Maybe he was just pissed off, and decided Potter can go to hell with his pompous assery in those fussy collar shirts and belt pants that fit his ass surprising super-duper well.

But, his lips. Fucking hell, his _lips_.

Theodore was such a kid. Such a small little skinny bean compared to Boris. He felt like a gangly giant compared to him a lot of the time. But the little pipsqueak was just that; small, delicate and pink skinned. He got burnt all the time. Boris would help him put aloe vera on his skin when it got bad. The mystifying little fucker managed to even burn his lips. They would get all pink and puffy, Potter would whine and complain about it, making Boris laugh at his voice trying not to stretch while he spoke, making him sound daft. Boris saved his burnt up lips for last, every time. Arguably it was his favourite, and almost good enough to risk the horrible fucking sun himself in order to get him burnt up again so they could put on aloe vera.

At first when Theo confessed his lips would burn, Boris was cautious, and just put the gelled aloe on his fingers, and smear it on softly. After about a year of that, Boris switched it up, and they did it the same way ever since. Well, until he left, and Boris’ alternate aloe applying service was not needed. He’s been to New York, and the place was not sunny enough to burn. He hoped it hadn’t changed, because anyone else doing that for him would be murdered. Or Boris would just be deeply hurt that Theo shared their little ritual with anyone else.

He shouldn’t be hurt. Theodore promised him nothing, and to him, Boris was probably just an unimportant stopping point in his conquest of greater things in the world. Just an embarrassing interlude while he was stuck in the deathzone of Las Vegas. That’s all it is to Boris. Las Vegas means nothing to him, and if he doesn’t escape somewhere himself by the time his papa needs to move again, he wouldn’t care about this place and all that happened here anyway. It’s not like he treasures it now, enough to stay even when the reason he treasures it in the first place is done with him.

Theodore hasn’t called him. Boris wouldn’t call him even if he knew where the fuck he was and what his new phone number was. It would just make him grovel for a depressing few days before stealing his papa’s hidden money stash and getting on the next taxi to New York. He didn’t want to do that. But Boris is drunk, what the fuck does he know.

Right! The aloe vera technique he came up with.

So, Boris made fun of Potter all the time for his pink, soft, easily sizzled skin. Boris couldn’t talk. The only reason Boris didn’t burn like Potter was because he refused to take off his long sleeved shirts and jeans, and his long black hair saved most of his head and neck from sizzling even worse with his own vampire white skin. His nose suffered, but that was easily fixed with a few dabs of aloe vera. His ridiculous fat lips also slightly burned, though no where near as bad as Theo’s.

It had been an absolute motherfucker of a heatwave in the summer break. Theodore had the dumbass idea of having a water fight with the hose. The fool didn’t realise being shirtless would make him burn even easier. They had lots of fun that day, despite afterwards hurting like a bitch. Boris actually took his own shirt off, one of those rare moments where he was just over giving a fuck. He regretted it afterwards, when his pale white torso flamed up like a vampire in sunlight. He was throbbing that night, shaking with sun poisoning, and maybe a little high from it, which was probably the only good outcome out of the day. Until at least Potter got the aloe vera out and started rubbing it all over Boris’ chest and back without hesitation.

He went over his shoulders, his stomach, his neck and nose. Boris was sitting Indian style watching him the whole time, wondering what he could do. Nothing, there was nothing he could do but sit and let him slide his soft delicate hands all over his body. When finally Boris couldn’t take it anymore, and he was throbbing in more ways than one, he got fed up and took the aloe from Theo and started doing him, who was so red he could pass as a cherry tomato.

The ways Potter sighed and softly moaned as Boris slid his own hands over his chest and shoulders, was almost too much. Something about the way he blinked his eyes open at Boris, the sunburn making his eyes look even brighter than usual, cracked Boris in half.

Using the excuse that he was sun high, he went for it.

‘’You burned your lips again, idiot,’’ Boris muttered, touching Theo’s puffy pinkened bottom lip with his forefinger. Theodore smiled a little and shrugged, and Boris groaned at it.

‘’I can’t help that,’’ Theodore said softly. ‘’Yours is worse.’’

Boris felt his own throbbing lips, the leftover aloe on his fingers soothing them. He swiped a glob of it- too much, and smeared it on his lips, smirking at Potter.

Times like this Boris used to be so surprised by Potter’s out of nowhere confidence. Like having the confidence to just get up and leave this place. Boris was a coward.

Theodore pulled Boris forward by the shoulders and kissed him, sharing the aloe on his lips also, and not even stopping. Getting to the point where he was licking him, seducing Boris’ lips until they were pried open, where he kept licking at him, sliding around his overly wet tongue. Boris tasted aloe vera, and he had never been more okay with the slightly toxic taste of it, grabbing at Theo’s shoulders and clawing in, getting a sharp hiss out of Theo, only to tell him to not stop when Boris released them out of worry he was hurting him. He had wanted the pain, he wanted to keep going. Boris had too.

So what happened? Did they fuck and ride off into the sunset as open little boyfriends who sucked each other’s fingers slick with aloe vera.

Of course fucking not.

The story never ends up like that in real life. They made out on Boris’ bed for awhile until his father returned from work, which scared them both into Theo leaving through the window like usual when they were stuck in a corner there. The next day, Boris didn’t bring it up, Theodore didn’t bring it up, and they went on with their lives as usual. The next time they got sunburned, Boris did it again, Theo opened his lips again, and they did it everytime afterwards. As though it was the typical routine, which it became.

Knowing Theodore, he panicked over it in his head. Absolutely, Boris knows that. Because he’s a big fat closet case. He’s said it before. He’s said it to Theodore’s face- only when high of course, so he doesn’t remember a thing.

Boris didn’t think he’d actually talk about it here. He assumed he’d remember forever.

But he’s drunk. He doesn’t care. Maybe he should just out and say everything they did. It’s not like it would matter. No one but him will read this. And he will never, ever forget. He could snort, smoke and drink his life away, and it wouldn’t matter. He’ll always remember.

**

Boris curses when some of the vodka he was skulling spills on his newest written letter. He shouldn’t call it a letter. It’s not going anywhere- it’s not addressed to anybody. It’s not like- ha!-

-He’ll find Theodore’s address and send it to him.

Boris would sooner never see him again before showing him these stupid drunk ramblings. He probably will never see him again anyways.

He partly remembers why he decided not to go to New York.

Mostly because Theo hasn’t called. It could only mean that he’s doing well enough on his own that he doesn’t need Boris as much as Boris feels like he needs him- a deep hole in his chest. That spoilt fuck is all Boris has been thinking about this month. Not a single thought he has doesn’t thread back to Theodore. He’s been getting drunk nearly every night. He’s getting high every morning before school, on the days he doesn’t hide out his papa and skip.

Mostly because it’s easier to forget that he’s sad, so he can live the next day without the added melancholy he’ll already be suffering.

He’s decided now to be angry at him. To be fatally cross with Potter for leaving, for taking Popchik- though it wasn’t technically his to begin with. For letting Boris stay behind.

Fuck him. Potter doesn’t deserve this kind of pointless attention wasted on him. Boris will think of anything else, from now on.

He decrees that by scrounging through his drawer for his joint, but coming up dry. Boris swills another sip of vodka.

He needs to find his dealer and get more tomorrow.

There’s a lot of memories he needs to be high enough to get angry about, and eventually forget. That’s what he’ll do.

Yeah. Fuck Potter.


	4. Chapter 4

_//Day 256 since Potter left//_

Potter was always a fucking basket case. He internalised all this shit his whole life, and never spoke any of it. Ever. Not even to Boris. Boris, the one who he spent every waking moment of the day with. The one who saw his own tragic home life with that ‘dad’ and his trashy barbie wife. The one who accepted it because it was just the way of the world, and let him remain internalised about fucking everything.

Ugh.

Jesus fuck. This isn’t working.

Boris doesn’t know why he’s still doing this. It’s been almost a year since Potter left. He doesn’t know why he’s writing every fucking thing about this punk like he’s still important. He doesn’t know why he’s filled eight notebooks with this meandering shit. He doesn’t even know why he’s been writing himself in third person like anyone reading would assume it was an unbiased observer. Anyone reading would know immediately that it’s him writing this sappy shit.

Not that a fucking soul would ever fucking read it. Boris would defend every notebook with his life like the secrets of the universe were inside.

He decided exactly 2 months ago to stop being sentimental about the memory of Theodore. He got low. One night, he’d been drinking a questionable combination of vodka and beer, brightened with the lurid dopiness of some acid drops he loaned off a fuckwad also called his dealer. At one point in the night, morning, whatever- Boris felt the right combination of blissful melancholy that he needed some reminder of what he once had.

So he missed him. In other words, Boris really fucking missed Theodore, and it was the first time he’d admitted it to himself and accepted it out loud.

He got weak. He got really fucking weak and read the notebooks. Scanned over every single scribble of words he patched together in depressing agony over the months. Read the words he’d vowed to never look at again after making that mistake the first time.

Needless to say it was maybe the second biggest mistake of his life. The first one being that fucking cab!!

He didn’t expect the memories to flood back tenfold with the edge of a frozen blade skewering through his brittle aching ribcage. But they did, and the experience left Boris feeling without a functional heart. A hole appeared where it used to be, black and dead and cold.

He got over it. Obviously. It took some sleep and a really, _really_ strong bottle of vodka, and then Boris was completely okay again. As listless as he was before he even met the little bastard. Even better even!

So he decided that being sad and mopey and pathetic over the past was completely useless, and cut it out like he should have to begin with. Potter never did anything for him. Nothing that mattered. And he didn’t hesitate to leave him behind! He’s probably forgotten about Boris completely by now. So Boris should forget him completely too. Right?

**

Boris hates the way the last sentence ends in the note, like he’s still considering whether Theodore actually means alot to him or not. Of course he doesn’t, if he meant that much Boris would have said fuck it to everything and trailed Potter to New York wherever he went. But Boris wasn’t Potter’s lapdog, he didn’t exist only to serve Theo’s needs. He had his own thing going here. He would make the most out of it. Because he was never going to New York- not for Potter, not for anyone, but himself.

He’s fifteen fucking years old! He still has no job, no future. No hope for happiness. Potter made sure to demolish that. He had to change things soon, or his life would blow up in his face.

Boris sleeps it off and trashes the notebook into the abandoned closet he keeps them all. He won’t look at them again for a month, if he follows the typical script of his repetitious life. He’ll get super high after this for a few days, cleansing his spirit, then grovel for a week, maybe do some held back weeping.

Maybe he’ll get high with his dealer instead of alone in his room this time. Whatever.

He broke up with Kotku 5 months ago- a long time. But it still felt a little fresh somehow. Maybe because Theodore hated her. It amused Boris, sometimes pissed him off unbelievably at his childishness. So what he dated her? She was a sexy older girl who never didn’t feel like putting out. It’s not Boris’ fault Theodore was a whiny prick about the whole thing. He’d been under some kind of impression they were fucked up boyfriends or something? Ha!!

If they truly were, Potter would have waited for Boris- given him a few fucking days to prepare. He left like he didn’t care, taking Popchik, taking everything. Boyfriends wouldn’t do that. Theodore was a prick.

Maybe that’s why Boris took the painting? He doesn’t even fucking remember the fucked reasoning behind it. It’s still hidden away, in the closet of death, where all bad things lay. He doesn’t dare check it yet. It’s a trap- a guilt trap that will pull him to the depths it’s taken him this fucking long to escape.

He probably wouldn’t be staying this place much longer. He never lived in a country or city longer than a year. That time was approaching. Who knows what the fuck his father was doing with that girlfriend that came over infrequently.

She was friendly to him, but his instinct to hate her was enough to prevail over any kindness. Who knows what the fuck she saw in his horrible father. Probably the looks that dragged him through life and spawned Boris’ own pathetic life.

He just waited for the end of this inevitable relationship so his papa could focus on drinking and beating Boris instead of her. Ha!

Maybe he’d just fuck off himself somewhere. He’d probably done his dash with America. Europe seemed the best bet for a place to exist for a while, where no nerdy little boys with muddy red hair were capable of fucking him up.

He’d spend his time fucking girls, forgetting about his life, killing his brain one drug at a time, and eventually dying once he found no more use for himself to exist. Easy, done. Not even complicated.

He was completely over people complicating his simple depressing plans. Theodore!


	5. Chapter 5

// ~~Day~~ Over a year since Potter left me//

The train is cold- but what else should be expected for its price to board. I didn’t pay a ticket. I slithered in like a serpent between an ostentatious woman and her morbidly obese husband. They were complaining about the no alcoholic beverages rule, and distracted the gatekeeper long enough for me to evade their sight.

It was a simple thing. But irrelevant now. I’ll be doing this kind of thing a lot from now on- until a solider environment is found somewhere far away from here.

New York has been a neon sign bouncing around my skull since the incident. I’m trying not to humour it.

Finally changing my perspective to first person, because after over a year of denial, I accept now I’m writing this diary for myself so I don’t find a rope, a handy tree, and enough designer drugs to choke my oesophagus while my necks hangs.

The train is moving now. You should never say never, but I know within a millimetre of my pathetic aching bones; I will **_never_** come back here.

**

It only took a black eye, a strong shattered bottle of tequila, and a bleeding forearm to finally make the move he’d been contemplating for the last three months. He’d even had a simple travel bag prepared for the moment that became tonight. In it- containing the only parcels of his past life he couldn’t bear to separate with to find another one.

He couldn’t do more than try to feel safe with them clutched in his arms, for if he opened the bag it would release everything way too soon to process, and make this realer than it had to be.

And, he was currently hoarding more priceless shit in here than Queen Elizabeth’s piano was worth. Maybe even in monetary value- but no, Boris meant in sentimental value. If he ever lost these precious things he would punish himself so much worse than an easy death.

Looking out the window of the booth, the landscape of Las Vegas slowly moved from desert to green the further the train chugged away. The first big stop was Cedar City, but that was far too close to this place to consider. Boris needed to get as far in this country as he could, and then out of it. The East Coast was the obvious solution, and that meant a lot of sneaking onto trains. Boris had stolen a secret collection of cash he’d been saving for something like this years ago, and he’ll admit that during the better part of Las Vegas, that money had been reserved in the name of him and Theo going off somewhere- anywhere else, when they finally worked up the nerve to escape their shitty lives. Quite ironic that it was all Boris’ idea, but when the time came, Theodore was the only one bold enough to follow through. He’s thought this countless times.

It’s a painful and constant urk in Boris’ head, and he had it every day. Crippling regret, unbearable pain in his chest. A soft spot in his heart when he thinks about their last moments. He shouldn’t want to torture himself about this, and yet he does it every single day, an entire year later.

This time though, it’s almost too much for him to bear without breaking down. Not many things can do it these days. But Potter- Boris had accepted he was dear enough to pull it off.

The blood has died on his arm. It wasn’t bad enough to need stitches, but the blood flow was fantastically great, which was the final switch. He could not in good conscience stay here to let his father kill him when he had a perfectly good reason to do it himself. Boris won’t let himself do it though- unless he gets to see Theodore one last time. He doesn’t even have to look back, but Boris just has to do this. It’s more on the lines of a desperate last attempt at things, but it’s in the cards. Stacked way at the back- there’s a few special cards left before he draws that particular one. But it’s a comfort to know it’s there just in case.

They serve simple pasta heated in a container on the train, but Boris has to steal it from the staff while they’re not looking- lest they notice him and ask for his ticket of proof. He’s tucked into a near forgettable booth on the last carriage- undetectable. He doesn’t stop clutching the bag.

Eventually, after a few hours of stopping at minor towns along the route, the train arrives in Cedar City. Boris was hoping it could just continue along to the next city, but the train journey ended here.

He snuck out between passengers as they exited said train, bag in tow, legs swerving fast to escape. He didn’t need to leave the train station- just needed to find the next one for the journey east. The schedule when examined- determined the next train would arrive to take him to the next town in half an hour.

He takes the opportunity to take a piss, and clean up a little with water at some pathetic attempt to feel fresher. Typically he wouldn’t care, let the whole fucking train fill with his ripe body odour, but he knows this trip would be longer than usual- he could attract attention by smelling like a hobo. And there’s a tiny voice in his head that traitorously lets him keep hoping Theodore might be impressed if he cleaned himself up a little. He’d always been an anal little spazz about hygiene.

Boris used to love that about him.

He has to consciously force his brain to think about anything else before he gets into a mood to be emotionally self-destructive. That kind of mindset always leads to hasty deserved cuts and a guilty regret that he’s tainted more useless skin that would have been mourned by Potter if he still cared at all.

He obviously doesn’t. Getting away was the best thing to happen to him, after realising Boris was a piece of shit and getting in the taxi alone was a godsend. He wouldn’t even be surprised if Theodore trashed Popchik at this point. Boris did tend to put his face in Popchik’s fur and coddle her desperately on those indulgent afternoons. Anything too Boris, Theo would have chucked away to start clean.

For Boris was not clean- no matter how much he washed his face with train station bathroom water.

He leaves the restrooms eventually, stealing a stray few notes from a woman’s purse while she peruses the nearby gift shop, tucking the purse back to evade notice. He buys a packet of M&M’s at the vending machine with some of it, needing to chew something sweet so he doesn’t resort to his tongue.

By the time the train arrives, Boris had created his battle plan for the rest of train hopping. Slipping in again undetected between passengers, he heads to the least visible booths at the back of the multiple carriages, and slumps down securely, keeping a constant eye on the aisle and walking hostesses.

The bag is still secure- and Boris checks the contents to be sure. He knows he’s not the only pick pocketer at the station- and he’s too out of practise to be the best. Living around Theodore rubbed off on him too much to resort to it often.

He did teach Theo a little about the trick of the trade. He smiles remembering it- he knows it’s just another gateway to more pain thinking about it. But it’s too hard to resist every fucking time. Theo floods his thoughts any moment the fucker possibly can.

The poor sheltered kid had no idea how to do anything. Anything that mattered. Booksmarts (his only talent) was gonna get him beaten up at school. He was already one of the smallest in the class, and looked 9 years old at most. Boris was on his way to look 16 with his height at the time. Weirdly he hasn’t had another growth spurt since then, but it’ll come.

Theodore was also puny and spindly armed in a way that begged for someone to pull his underwear over his head in the hallways. Boris did it once- or tried to. Potter retaliated by doing it back, and like usual, they giggled like motherfuckers and ditched class to smoke weed behind the school.

That was the kind of thing he lived for at that point. Always it was travelling, and fucking, and finding new things to tell his fellow travellers about. The whole stupidly perfectly irritating interlude in Vegas switched him completely over, and it’s like he could have stayed there for years more than another other place he’s ever been- just for the chance to be with Theodore another day longer.

Boris grinds his teeth now- furious at him after a year of being left alone. He thought he was over this stage- but memories were his worst enemy- and maybe he should donate his brain for surgery so he can’t remember anymore.

The train starts moving- finally, but Boris barely notices. He stares out the window and wonders what might have happened if he had convinced Theodore to stay another day to get ready emotionally. Boris actually managed to get attached to that place, it’s why he didn’t want to just jump ship without warning. And it was only after Theodore got into the taxi that he realised it wasn’t fucking Vegas he was attached to. It was the perfect idiot boy who’d just left. And the place didn’t feel the same, the moment the taxi pulled away. Maybe if he hadn’t been so rushed by Theodore to go, he’d have realised this and not been such a chickenshit about leaving.

Then Boris wonders if he’d had the balls to go- how that would have played out. The trip to New York would have been a cloying combination of tender and trusting between them- pretending to be cool and confident about it, when really they’d have both known they were only safe with their decision because they had each other there. Their safety net, rescue floaty- whatever fucking metaphor.

After all this time- Boris forgot to wonder if Theodore got to New York okay on his own. At least he had precious Popchik- but had it been enough?

It’s also maybe the first time all year Boris has felt any sympathy for Theodore. Any worry for him. This whole time- it had been resentment- and why? Because Boris couldn’t leave the place he’d felt any sentimental attachment to for the first time.

And maybe- Boris humours this childish but truest fucking hope, Theodore still misses him. Maybe- he missed him the whole time. Maybe Boris was being the child- not at least trying to call Theodore first. He had ways of getting his phone number- he wasn’t completely useless.

He doesn’t like the pit his stomach falls into at these thoughts, and decides he’s had enough of torturing himself.

He distracts himself with reading a fake-ass magazine crinkled on the edges and two years old, an American old-news celebrity scandal on the cover. The landscape flashes by in a blur, it’s too dizzy to keep staring at. He reads the magazine to occupy his mind, and ignores all other thoughts.

Except the quite recent but throbbing, unshakable suggestion: he could call Theodore.

**Author's Note:**

> [Follow me if you choose :3](https://www.instagram.com/lozislaw/)


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